Why?

Why?

An hour earlier

Draco woke up to the painfully bright morning, two owls pecking at his window. A migraine already forming from last night's events– an occurrence he had gotten far too used to. Squinting against the break of day, one of the owls had the morning's Daily Prophet, and the other looked like it carried a simple letter. He wanted nothing more than to drown his sorrows in another beer or roll over and go back to sleep, but the idea was quickly discarded as the owls scratched impatiently at the window.

He slowly sat up and ran a hand over his overgrown beard before nearly falling over his bed to get to the window.

When was the last time I drank something other than beer? He thought to himself as he stumbled hard into the bulky wooden dresser next to the window.

The dresser mocked him, filled with her clothes and other things he no longer wore. He wasn't sure why he kept the massive thing.

Opening the window, the usual sounds of the street below filtered into the room as a brisk breeze came through the window. It was only then that Draco realized he was stark naked.

Unfazed by the realization, he collected the letter and newspaper and walked away, leaving the window wide open. He slowly pulled on a pair of trousers and walked out into the rest of his flat.

He paused, seeing his reflection in the elegant mirror on the wall across from the front door. Pansy had picked it out and was determined to put it there, insisting it would brighten up the place. Of course, they rarely saw each other after they lost to Voldemort.

He had spent seven miserable years fighting in a war. He scoffed at the idiocy of the resistance as soon as he realized Saint Potter wanted to use love to win a fucking war. It's been six years since they lost.

Now, looking at the mirror, he's reminded of the lack of his sister's presence in his life. He had taken Pansy from the Dark Lord's ranks and gone into hiding with the rest of the resistance. Everyone with a conscience was still hiding in one form or another.

He surveyed his visage in the mirror, another item to mock his current situation. His white-blonde hair was shaggy and overgrown, his pale skin had taken on a lifeless gray tint, and his once silver eyes had faded to a dull grey, taking on a sunken appearance. He looked like a man devoured in misery. Unable to look at himself any longer, he tore his gaze from the mirror and continued to the kitchen.

Draco hadn't had much trouble staying hidden after defecting from the Dark Lord's ranks. He didn't think much of it, as he was sure he knew who was responsible for ensuring he stayed out of Voldemort's purview.

After dropping the items on his kitchen table, he went to the fridge to grab another muggle beer, his current obsession. Attempting to reconnect with a part of his heart he's deprived of, Draco's indulged far too much in alcohol and muggle activities. He knew it was a coping mechanism but couldn't find it in himself to care. There's nothing he could do, so why bother? She made her decisions... not that he understood them.

Draco opened the bottle while he pushed thoughts of her away from the forefront of his mind. He took the first sip and was reminded he never favored the taste. He sat down at the table to inspect the letter, not feeling sober enough to stay standing. Draco never received letters anymore since isolating himself; letters defeat the purpose of being in hiding.

He took another mouthful of beer, looked down, and recognized the beautiful handwriting. Draco choked on his beer instantly, ran to the sink, and threw up the leftover alcohol in his stomach from the previous day. The bile burnt his throat fiercely. Draco forced himself to take deep breaths and gripped the sink so tight his knuckles turned white, completely in shock from seeing that writing he was all too familiar with.